DWDDT1 Your Heart is in My Lunch Box
by VAPX007
Summary: A new beginning for Darkwing Duck. Set in the DuckTales universe.
1. Woo-Hoo

_A/n: Someone had to do it and no-one was doing it so I'm happy to oblige! __Logical story progression: I did it! So happy! Time to play!_

_This story follows after the events from the DuckTales Season 2 Episode 16 episode "The Duck Knight Returns". If you haven't watched that, it is _awesome _and the 2017 DuckTales crew's love for Darkwing Duck is beyond any trace of doubt. I could keep ranting here because I'm a nutty geeky DW fan but I'm sure I'll do that elsewhere. I seem to be writing onomatopoeia a lot lately... Woo-Hoo!_

* * *

**Your Heart is in My Lunch Box**

* * *

**Woo-Hoo!**

* * *

"I am the master of... uff!"

By the sunny daytime side walk, the purple caped mallard struggled getting the over-sized letters into the thin slot of the mailbox. "Mail! Get in th-! Wait a minute, what's this handle really for?" He yanked the jammed envelope out from the slot and tried lowering the handle. "Aha!" Triumphantly, he piled the letters up onto the slippery inside and raised the handle, dropping the letters safely into the box for departure. "I am the terror that flaps in the night! No mere mailbox can out-manoeuvre me! I am Darkwing Duck!"

Job done, Drake sighed, staring at his latest 'nemesis'. Play-acting was only good until it was over and then he was back to reality. "D'oh, I want a real case! I'm better than posting payslips and protocol permission passes. It's not like I haven't studied to be a superhero, I'm wa-ay better than this!" He grumbled as he turned, stubbing his toe on the raised edge of the side walk. "Argh-! Easy, you got this..." He cringed through the pain and after a few moments the pain was gone. "It's fine, I'm fine, everything's fine..."

* * *

Drake gazed along the tree-lined street back to the building he was now working at. It was an unmarked government justice building rendered in classic sandstone. There were no signposts or plaques declaring this as St Canard's S.H.U.S.H. central building. He should be pleased with himself to have found it, because boy, these guys took 'hidden in plain view' to a whole new level.

The ecstatic feeling he'd had to be accepted onto the payroll however was starting to erode with all the seemingly menial tasks he'd so far gotten. Agent Terri Smith was giving him the same treatment as he'd gotten as a fresh faced work experience kid down at the court office. On the other hand, it was a career change and that meant he was lucky to get in though the door at all. There was nothing in his employment agreement that said he couldn't get out in the field on his own time.

Along with the money to pay the bills, the other good thing was it was a day job; he was free to dedicate his evenings practicing his 'Darkwing Duck the real life crime-fighter' routine. He'd even managed to stop a criminal this week. Though that criminal was only a street thug, he had been the only criminal Darkwing Duck had laid eyes on.

One major thing he realised was that he needed to work on his detection skills; learn the lay of the land, determine where the criminals liked to hang out. It was one of those things his predecessor didn't need to worry about as an actor on a TV set.

* * *

Drake walked back in to the office, smiling at the receptionist at the front desk as he passed. Agent Sam Derwell smiled back. Drake had managed a lot of information out of Sam... on toddlers and drama teens. Parenthood was a fascinating conversation and Sam's family life resonated a slight envy in Drake, however none of this was really useful for work. All Sam could tell him were the corridors that Darkwing's pass card had been given access to and where the exits and fire extinguishers were located along his available routes.

There wasn't a fire right now though, and boy, were his fingers itching to put one out. He needed excitement. He needed an opportunity to 'be' Darkwing Duck.

At first his supervisor had seemed the most boring of drab monotones, a bland, everyday 'suit'. At-a-glance she would easily be taken for a standard private sector corporate employee. However, Drake's persistence had uncovered Agent Smith's sweet side. A mother of five, she liked wearing big earrings, a hair band, and could give a play-by-play on any 1980s action movie.

Perhaps the most remarkable things about Agent Terri Smith was, firstly, that she never seemed to mind any of his occasionally backwards talk, and secondly, she hadn't asked for his previous work experience or resume in his S.H.U.S.H. job interview. Clearly they didn't need anything more from him than a signed employment agreement, though, because he'd gotten his first pay-check yesterday.

His boss was also a kind of receptionist like Sam. Drake figured Terri was a more 'mid tier' sort of receptionist, although his own wishful thinking could be interfering with that conclusion. Two weeks into this job, there was one thing he now knew for sure. That was that Agent Terri Smith certainly wasn't in charge of sending out field agents.

From the impression he'd gotten from Smith and Derwell and the other passerby agents he'd queried in the cafeteria, it seemed that S.H.U.S.H. was a rather antiquated many level hierarchical organisation. Darkwing was lost two feet in the door and without a doubt right on the bottom rung with the janitor.

On second consideration, the janitor would be higher since he had access to the entire floor plan. Drake found it disconcerting not knowing which door led into a room or yet another corridor. It was a rabbit warren and it felt intentional. A criminal wouldn't last very long uncaught in this building. 'He' wasn't going to last very long in this building. He needed to get access to the janitor's floor plan.

Once Drake had committed himself to becoming a superhero, it was suddenly very hard to not notice these things. Like his distinctive lack of knowledge of alternative escape routes.

* * *

Drake approached the brown haired terrier's desk situated at the end of a cul de sac with more doors leading off from beside and behind her desk.

"Agent Smi-."  
"Ah, Darkwing, you're back. I'd like your help with the filing situation."  
"F-filing?" Drake was dumbstruck once more by her indefatigable complacency and followed in a stunned silence. Mopping for mapping was important but filing meant he would get his hands on some actual crime cases!

"You've never gotten me to do filing before."  
Agent Smith turned around at a door in the corridor, eyeing him with a hint of something crafty. "Uh, yes, and I'll take the opportunity to remind you of the confidentiality clause in your employment agreement."  
"I'm dressed in a cape and a mask; you can be confident I've got the concept down."

Secrets were for important reasons. The less people who connected Darkwing Duck to his real name Drake Mallard, the fewer master criminals would hunt him down and corner him in his apartment when he was trying to chill out. The same could be said for the untold amount of data in the S.H.U.S.H. data-bank system. "And I don't plan on turning evil a-anytime soon." He waved his hand, clearing the issue from in front of him.

"Heh." Agent Smith chuckled, "True. You're far too young and sensible for that." She swiped her access card. The door opened and she gestured for him to go in first.  
Drake shrugged and trusting her, walked in.

* * *

The windowless room was dark but for the glow from the electronic equipment.

Agent Smith flicked on the light behind her. Huge stacks of manilla folders were bursting out of wall shelves. In the centre of the room was a burly looking photocopier, a basic wooden desk and a sitting room chair. A lone computer screen boasted a workstation.

"Here at S.H.U.S.H. we are dedicated to reducing our impact on the environment. We take full advantage of the technology available to us." Terri sighed, "However in our rush to advance we've been left with a slight backlog from our previous system."

"No problem!" Drake smiled at her, feeling a quiet buzz of excitement. "Just tell me the protocols. I'll get these stacks sorted and safely saved."  
Agent Smith smiled at him. "I know. You've shown me you have good attention to detail and that's why I'm confident giving you this job. It's very important it's done well."  
"Yes." He answered in a small voice."I mean, I plan on doing everything well in my life-."  
"Oh, I don't mean 'you' won't be thorough. There is a reason these files are still out here." She gestured to the room.

She walked him through the scanning process for the first case folder.

"I may not have explained everything. Some cases get shall we say 'unusually bizarre'. However there's always another case file equally as bizarre, so just check back and you'll see how it's done."  
Drake nodded emphatically. "These folders are as good as filed, Agent Smith."

"There's no particular hurry, Darkwing; just be thorough. And don't forget to close the door when you come and go. I've updated your access codes so your pass card will get you back in here. Oh, and most importantly, don't forget to keep yourself hydrated. It's nearly lunchtime; don't forget that either. I wouldn't want to come back to a corpse sitting in here. Especially not over a few musty old files."

"Certainly not, Agent Smith." He smiled at her through his momentary embarrassment. "I will keep an eye on the time... this time."

She left him in the quietly buzzing room.

"Ye-es!" Drake gazed at the stuffed shelves in a full buzz of contained excitement. "This is so-oo cool!" He grabbed a folder from the shelf, dashing it onto the table. "Real crimes. Real locations, real times! This is exactly what I need! I'll be foiling felonies everywhere I go! Ha ha!"


	2. Grim and Gritty

_A/n: I can see at least two ways to take this character... a__nd since I'M the one doing the writing, of course it's the most complicated option._

_A/n: Oh, and sorry about the pizza._

* * *

**Your Heart is in My Lunch Box**

* * *

**Grim and Gritty.**

* * *

There was an open box of half eaten pizza sitting on the TV table. A yellow outfit with offsetting black and red cape hung over the back of a dining chair next to the TV.

Jim Starling in a white singlet and purple boxers paced a warpath in front of his lounge chair. "Grim and gritty..."

He felt confident he could act the part. If he could just figure out the blasted script he was supposed to be playing.

"Darkwing, 2.0 is patrolling the streets when he spies some trouble..."

He groaned to himself. "No, no, no. Start again, Jim! Need to start... again!"

He felt a sickness inside every time he thought about Darkwing Duck. For years and years he'd tried to breathe life back into that character. Unsurprisingly, today wasn't turning out any different.

"St Canard: where heroes aren't welcome. Nah, too bland. But... yeah, a St Canard line'd be good. Hmm. A nice place to live, a terrible place to live? City of angels, city of dread and destruction... Heh, no, 'I'm' the one bringing the dread and destruction to the party..."

"I like the hero bit... just need to pronounce the negative modifier a bit more."

"St Canard: No place for heroes?" He smirked a little. "Yeah, that works." He stood up and went to his coffee table to write the idea down.

"St Canard: No place for heroes. Yeah; I'm going with that!"

"Great, got a title." He went and grabbed a slice of pizza from the box as a reward, reading over his words a few more times as he finished chewing.

St Canard: No Place for Heroes.

"So. Darkwing Duck, tragically fated hero..." He felt a sudden wave of nausea. "Ur, I'm gonna be sick." He dashed to the bathroom.

* * *

When he came back out, the same problem confronted him. "I am not tragic!" He clenched his fists. "I don't even know the meaning of the word! It's a paltry insult."

"I mean, it doesn't even make sense!"

He sighed, sitting down onto the sofa, sinking his bill into his hands, staring up at the poster of himself posing as Darkwing Duck behind the TV. "Launchpad's right. Dumb kid's right. I wrote Darkwing Duck into a dead corner. They must have done something to fix him. Question is: How'd they do it?!"

"I could just write a straight up super villain. That'd be easy." He sighed, "Ten times easier than what I'm trying to do. Plus I don't need..." he looked over at his outfit on the dining chair stuck out beside the TV. The colour made him surge with anger again. "Packet dye."

A bit of hot water and phsst. Darkwing Duck had melted away like the wicked witch of the west. "D'oh! They even recycled my costume off'a somebody else's set! Is-there-nothing-in-my-life-belonging-to-me?" He stood up and grabbed the costume in a wild savage sweeping motion. "My show got three seasons, Tuskernini!" He shook the costume at the ceiling light. "What did yours get? A lone pilot episode that's never seen the light of day! A leading actor that's pushing up daisies! That's-what-you-get-for-being-a-hack!"

His temper faded with the feel of the familiar soft fabric in his fist. He looked at his costume again. His. Costume. It just 'happened' to be yellow now.

"Wonder how that old blubber-mound is doing, anyway?" He shook his head and dropped the costume back onto the chair and sank back onto the sofa.

* * *

"If I could just get my hands on that script! I know it'd help me." He glared at the vagrant pizza box, remembering the recent scene about surrendering to Megavolt. "The trailer was good but it kinda went downhill from there. I hate trailers that do that. Bring up your hopes and expectations like a three day old pizza."

He sighed, looking at his costume again. "Geez; that thing makes a heck of a loud statement." He considered. "Come and get me; I'm right here." He slighted a smile. "Course, it'll be the last thing they ever do considering it's me wearing it."

"Nobody messes with me. For I am..." Jim paused, "I am... something something 'more darkness' something something." He rubbed his face in frustration. A hard sell coming from someone dressed in canary yellow. Everything came down to some hard core acting skills.

"Good job I have those."

"Enough of this pathetic layin' about; I'm getting that script. Even if the plot's a load of swill, they had to have doubled down on those gritty metaphors everyone likes. Maybe I'll even get a new villain name out of the bargain."

He stopped, staring at his yellow costume.

"Only question now is 'should I wear it'?"

"Yeah, punch me. I could do with a laugh." He grabbed it and went to change. Without a plane ticket, Duckburg was a very long way away.

* * *

_A/n: No Place for Heroes is a post-apocalyptic Darkwing Duck story written by fanfiction writer _joey the ripper_. It's a bit different from the light fluffy clouds filling my head at the moment._


	3. The Great SHUSH Mystery

_A/n: Eh, what's the point of a watch if it isn't like Penny's?_

_Call of Cthulu five second parody:  
__"Alone, in uncharted corridors, all you can hear is:"  
__"Stuck... Jammed."  
__"Oh, no, the sea sickness is back! Abandon ship!"  
__"But we're not on a ship!"  
__"Then get a sock puppet!"  
__"Cool, it's a 100 foot tentacle thing!"  
__"Oh, no, the sea sickness is back!"  
__"Quick; get the sock puppet!"  
__(Warning: Sock puppets not included)  
__"Noo!"_

* * *

**Your Heart is in My Lunch Box**

* * *

**The Great S.H.U.S.H. Mystery**

* * *

The file stacks slowly disappeared from the left side of the room. Progress made Drake's determination grow stronger.

During one of his regularly scheduled breaks, Drake managed to track down the janitor.

"Hi there."  
The guy looked up from the mop. "Who're you supposed to be?"  
"Darkwing Duck."  
The janitor froze, growing wide-eyed. "You're not... say that again!"  
"Darkwing Duck." Drake flourished his cape.  
"You played Edgar in Rise of the Boorsteins! Drake Mallard." The janitor smiled giddily, "I reviewed that movie on my channel."

"Well, someone had to have watched that movie." Drake shrugged off the nervous tension. "I've changed career now. This is more comfortable for me."  
"Maybe a bit 'too comfortable'?"  
Drake laughed. "Didn't get your name?"  
"John Beakris." John extended his hand out.

Drake shook it, noticing a tattoo over John's wrist. "Ah, a Ducky Moore fan."  
"A 'Die-Hard, Ducky Moore' fan."  
Drake chuckled again. "I was wondering if you could help me."

John pushed the mop back into the bucket and faced him. "Well, I 'am' the janitor. What seems to be the problem?"  
"I've been having nightmares..." Drake hesitated, "Being lost in a maze of unending squirreling corridors, plain blank wooden doors, no windows, endless corridors..." He swallowed. "Did I mention the uncharted corridors?"  
John gazed at him for a long moment. "I don't know how to help you with that, other than 'get out' for what that's worth."  
"Not really viable just at the moment, no."

Drake tried again. "This building is shaped in a basic rectangle, built circa 1880." Drake made a box shape with his hands, "But the passageways don't conform to the original floor plan. Most of these internal walls have been built at a later point in the building's history."  
"I heard that too. Don't know when, or who they got to do it."  
Drake sighed. " 'I' don't even know the basic layout."

"Management-in-the-middle, agency-at-the-front, labs-at-the-back." John answered immediately. "Anytime you get off a flight of stairs, that's how you know to go left, right or straight ahead. Apart from the basement, that is. It's just for storage."  
"Wow... thanks!" Drake breathed, "That's hugely helpful. I feel my headache clearing up already!"

"Hey, you're welcome." John smiled. "I should get back to cleaning now."  
"Of course, me too. Thanks again!"

* * *

Another day passed and Drake still hadn't cracked the code of crime yet, but he felt like he was going to. Nearly halfway and he already had two hot-spots pinned for patrol. Although timing himself was still questionable.

* * *

All the shelving units were of an identical age but one on the back wall. At the beginning he didn't see any significance to it until today when he started clearing the folders off it.

Completely obscured by case files was a door. Had they actually shelved off an entire room in a desperate grab for square footage storage space? It was true that this seemingly ordinary room was tiny. And if tiny was ordinary, it was fair to see how this had happened. A sacrifice of a door for more filing space. Pity it wasn't a mechanical secret bookcase door. He'd always wanted to see a gadget like that in real life.

The question of what was behind the door burned as he cleared the shelves in front of it.

More files, for sure. But how old, and were they standard and clean; or would they be tainted, twisted, grim and horrifying?

Either way, he'd be the first to lay eyes on their contents in years.

Shelf after shelf, Drake worked through, reviewing, scanning, checking, packing. One thing was for certain; these people were right up his alleyway. S.H.U.S.H. dealt with the weirdest, oddest, and downright bizarre-st of cases that St Canard had ever seen. Darkwing was on the verge of skilling up to the next level of crime solving. Drake could feel it in his bones.

* * *

Another day and he'd cleared the interrupting bookcase.

Now he had to. Just... get it open. It was late but he had to have a look-see. He moved the empty shelving unit across to the now empty half of the room then came back to eyeing the door in excitement.

Ancient history?

Dangerous history?

Something mundane?

He tried the handle. It was stuck.

"Locked?"

Something extraordinarily top secret?

He considered the handle carefully. "No, it's just jammed." He decided. "Good job this isn't a computer game... Look out, you devious doorknob!" He grinned at it, pointing gamely. "You have absolutely no idea who you're messing with! For I am the terror who befriends the janitor!" He turned around, flourishing his cape. He paused a moment as he reached for the outer door handle. "Huh." He pressed his thumb to his wristwatch. "Mental note, add WD40 to utility belt."

Drake stepped out of the room, discovering the afternoon had once again turned night. His watch hadn't gone off for dinnertime yet.

He opened the janitor closet and climbed up after the WD40. Only a few more days left of crime data collecting... Unless there was a huge warehouse of records needing to be scanned beyond the door.

He felt a slight panic in his chest. Filing forever?

"No, no way that's ridiculous. All the evidence of this building's architecture runs contrary to that idea." He calmed himself and jumped down. "Oh, well, I'll find out in-."

"Goodness, that's dangerous. Please don't do that again."

Drake looked up in confusion at the elder owl agent, he was standing by a bear agent who was practically a giant in comparison. He'd been aware of them, but he'd never considered them stopping to pay attention to what he was doing.

"The shelf has a solid construction, sir. It can take my weight. I've stood on ice thinner than that. Also I'm not particularly tall or..." He stopped, the guy he was talking to was a lot shorter than him and the other one was built like a rocket. "That is to say my body mass index isn't particularly overwhelming all things considered."

"And what if you were to slip?"  
Drake raised an eyebrow. "That would depend on how far I'm falling, sir. There are a few different moves to choose from."

"Well, no harm no foul." The elder agent said, "But please do be more careful in the future. It may look like only one foot to you, but to us, it's an OH and S nightmare should you sprain your ankle or some such thing."  
"I..." Drake hesitated, "Well, if you insist, sir. But that really isn't much of a bother to me. Now I need to go fix that thing. These files need saving! If you'll excuse me, sir." He turned his eyes up to the other agent, "Sir."  
"Of course. Carry on."

Dazed by the unexpected telling off, Drake shut the filing room door behind him and took a calming breath. Then something flashed in his memory about the bear agent. "Was that... the guy in dad's army picture?" He tried to recall the names listed on the back of the picture. "Koff?" That was pretty scary, did he recognise Drake under his Darkwing Duck costume? He supposed it didn't really matter inside the walls of S.H.U.S.H..

He gazed at the door opposing him and smiled. "So we meet again, door. But this time, I'm ready for you. Now; let's find out what you're really hiding."

Drake advanced and sprayed the WD40 into the jammed mechanism. He dashed the can on the other shelf and wrestled with the handle.

It came open. "Y'ah ha!" He exclaimed, pulling open the door to reveal...

Another, smaller cache of overstuffed shelves and archive boxes stacked up high in the centre of the room. He pulled out the topmost file and looked inside it. "1956. Just as I suspected!" He smiled, "We're getting into the real old time crimes now."

* * *

**The Suspect**

* * *

Agent Smith hadn't been kidding about cases taking a turn for the 'unusually' bizarre. This entire room was weird, it was always the same agents signing off on the cases, the last file was a wereduck rampage dealt with by SplasherQuack in 1991, and J Gander Hooter had apparently transferred to St Canard offices somewhere around 1965 making him the second oldest person Drake had ever met. The first being Scrooge McDuck.

Drake had finally emptied the anterior closet room.

He dusted himself off, looking wearily at the last of the shelves. More recent records. "Another decent night's work." He yawned and gave a tired stretch. "I'm sure they're interesting, but... this is a good place to stop for tonight." He headed out of the room, shutting it closed behind him. He noticed the elder agent from the other night passing at the top of the corridor.

"Hello again, young man."  
He smiled. "How are you tonight, sir?"  
"I'm quite fine, but I feel a little concerned that Agent Smith has given you an exorbitant task that makes you be here at all hours."  
"Oh, I'm nearly done. Just two more shelves left to go!" He enthused with self encouragement, "I'm Darkwing Duck, sir."

"Now I did think you looked familiar."  
Drake smiled.  
"Are you sure you shouldn't try to develop your own persona?"  
"Darkwing Duck is everything I believe in." Drake responded firmly, sweeping his hand in front of him.

"I didn't catch your name, sir."  
The agent paused, "Forgive me. I'm Director J Gander Hooter."  
Drake's eyes widened in surprise. "Wow, it's an honour to meet you, sir!"  
"Uh, well, it is... one of those jobs, but-."  
"You single-handedly defeated the terrorist lock down at Putoktah!" Drake felt a buzz with excitement. "Solved the mystery of the ice beast at Terranialia. Helped negotiate the peace treaty between the Belottomans and Serinians. You're a real life hero!"

"Good heavens, nobody knows about those events!"

"They have the opportunity now because 'I've' scanned them in." Drake thumbed to himself. "Everyone should know about the way you talked the Quackotails into a ceasefire: that was truly inspiring." He stopped, Hooter didn't look particularly enthralled. "Uh, anyway. You know what you did." He blushed. "I was just..."

"You went into the other room." Hooter paused, a distinctly disapproving tone, "What made you think you needed to do that?"

Drake felt a tremor of concern, "If it was locked I would have stopped to ask, sir."  
"There was a shelf unit in front of it." Hooter retorted dryly. "That wasn't enough of a deterrence?"  
"Agent Smith said to be thorough... she said to 'me' to be thorough." He thumbed to himself. "So she obviously meant that room too." Drake shrugged.

"What was to say that room was 'obviously' any business of yours?" Hooter used Drake's word.

"Um, inner city space economy? The records in those boxes were archived because they didn't happen in St Canard. They were all chosen for being the least relevant to the most amount of people. A fair compromise." He nodded. "Though the reversely stacked dates had me fooled for a while. The only reason for that is if the files were originally located somewhere else-."

"Yes; they were in my office." Hooter cut him off with a frown, "I'm very sorry to disappoint you, Darkwing, but there really is nothing inadvertent about the matter of archiving in this particular S.H.U.S.H. office."

Drake flinched at the reprimand. "I'm aware that I'm going on about a trivial topic, sir, but right now it's all I've got to go on. You don't want to talk about the cases; you don't want to talk about why you don't want to talk about them. Do you like chess?"

Hooter blinked at him. "Chess?"

"Oh, not, chess." Drake flinched, "I meant poker. It's poker right?"  
"Given the two choices it would be poker, yes."  
"Aha! So there is something behind archiving those files! I knew it. If they were in your office, then you've been restricting employee access to them all along!"

Hooter narrowed his eyes.

"Young man, according to the time stamps you've been here far too long today already. I won't be responsible for keeping you here any longer."  
"Thank you, sir." Drake flinched, feeling troubled, "er, sorry if that came off a bit strong. Have a nice night."  
"Uh, you... too, agent..." Hooter's voice was stilted as he left.

In the wake of the director of S.H.U.S.H., seasoned veteran at crime fighting and diplomat to the bizarre, Drake felt uncomfortably childish.

* * *

By the time Drake had gotten home to his apartment he was properly perplexed. Hooter did not appreciate being given compliments, even though he was a living hero. For once calisthenics were hard. He couldn't focus.

Was Hooter so battle scarred? Had Drake really acted that much of a child in front of him? What was the real reason Hooter had been hiding those files?

Giving up on exercise, Drake started writing out from his notes, going over the most outstanding of files particular to that room and what he'd learned. There had to be an answer.

_J Gander Hooter: Diplomacy, Infiltration and Elimination (boxed)_  
_Defining cases:_  
_Terranialian Ice Beast 1956_  
_Terrorists at Putoktah 1961_

_Green Ganderino: Deductive Reasoning (LHS Shelf)_  
_Significant cases:_  
_Hogsquatch Manor Mystery 1977_  
_St Canard Electric Works Tragedy 1975_

_Ragnos Featherstone: Deductive Reasoning (Back Shelf)_  
_Major case:_  
_The St Canard Rail-road Incident 1889_

_Lex Borgini: Science and Elimination (Back Shelf)_  
_Supernatural case:_  
_St Canard museum mystery 1911_

_Condoris: Counter Infiltration, Science and Diplomacy (Back Shelf)_  
_Significant cases:_  
_St Canard Insectian Invasion 1938_  
_St Canard-Audubon Sea Shelf Mermaid Treaty 1949_

_SplasherQuack: Elimination (Right Hand Side Shelf)_  
_Supernatural cases:_  
_Audubon Reserve Camp-ground Haunting 1984_  
_South side Cemetery Rising 1987_

* * *

Having reiterated the stuff from his earlier notes and memory, Drake considered that a public opinion would help. He picked up his phone.

_"Son?"  
_Drake smiled, "Hi dad..."  
_"Oh, So that's why you're calling while your mother's at work."  
_"Actually," Drake blushed, rubbing the back of his neck, "I just thought you'd still be awake?"

_"Ri-ight. Just ask me, son." His father chuckled._

"Do you remember someone called 'The Green Ganderino' back in the 70s?"  
There was a momentary pause. _"...That's not a good bedtime story, son."  
_Drake stared at his notes. "He's still got them. I thought I was just being thick!"

_"Who's got what?"  
_"The case files. 'The' case files, the ones that actually matter! He's still got them in his room!" He clenched his fist. "S.H.U.S.H. doesn't want its employees knowing that working for them is sending them crazy!"

_"Drake, everybody knows that The Green Ganderino went crazy... At least everyone in St Canard old enough to read the newspaper back in the early 80s."  
_"They wouldn't have released the full details to the press, dad." Drake discounted, "do you know how it happened? Does anybody but J Gander Hooter really know?"  
_"Son, I..."_

Drake silenced himself but his father didn't finish his sentence. "What, dad?"  
_"Well, I 'don't' think you're making too much of this, but..."_ His father hesitated again, then sighed. _"Your mum's the one with all the words. Look. I know this guy is rubbing your feathers up the wrong way, but you don't get to be the director of a super hero organisation for forty years-."  
_"Uh-forty-seven."  
_"-By being crooked."_

Drake flinched. "I didn't mean that."  
_"That's what it sounds like you mean. You know it's all to do with how you come off."  
_Drake swallowed the bitter lump in his throat. "You mean my 'delivery', dad."  
_"That's what I meant. Make friends with him, Darkwing Duck."  
_Drake widened his eyes. "Of course..."  
_"Try to get some sleep, son."  
_"Thanks, dad. You too."

Drake ended the call and looked over his notes. If Hooter trusted him enough, Darkwing would only need to ask the right leading question and he'd get handed all the answers!


	4. Desperado

_A/n: Well, this story is writing itself._

* * *

**Your Heart is in My Lunch Box**

* * *

**Road Trip**

* * *

Sapped from the constant sight of the road lines and weary from the eternal roar of the engine, Jim Starling pulled his purple hogster up to the curb in the most crowded part of the one-street town. That last drink and doughnut had worn off faster than his motorbike could guzzle fuel. He needed some real food.

He considered the small cluster of buildings around him. It was a street in the middle of nowhere. Two fuel stations; one more dodgy than the last, two junk shops, a bakery, a corner store and something that boasted itself a full blown restaurant even though it looked about as abandoned as everything else on the strip.

Choice made, he walked across the empty highway and pushed through the doors. He sat down heavily in a restaurant seat.

"Welcome to Antonio's Family Restaurant, what can I get you?"

Starling glared up at the waitress. What kind of stupid question was that? "Food and a drink! Why do you reckon anyone comes in here?"  
"How about a steak?"  
"Yeah, great, so long as it's edible. My last meal didn't go down so well." he looked away from her and pulled out his battered pen and tattered notebook. He flicked it open.

_St Canard: No Place For Heroes._

_The place? St Canard. The time? Night._

The doors burst opened, interrupting his thoughts.

"Yes, yes, that's all good; but you really must understand..."  
"Look at the devil, showing up in my headlight." Starling sat there, staring at Tuskernini on his phone. And Starling was wearing the outfit from his failed show.

Apparently going unnoticed.

If he didn't need the food so bad, he'd get up right now and have at the guy.

Tuskernini placed his order, a large number of over-priced, under-portioned dishes that Starling had never bothered himself to try.

The art house movie director turned about, finally seeing him, the only other person in the restaurant, "Oh! I am sorry, I didn't see you there."  
"I'm the only other guy in the place and you didn't even see me? Starling stared at him. "Much less 'recognise' me?"  
"Why, no... oh, you're a screenwriter." Tuskernini smiled jovially, noticing Starling' notebook. "I'm sorry, it's just that I meet so many people. Hazard of the profession you know."

Erk, this guy was making Starling sick. "Yeah, I'll say, and not a lot of 'em are worth it."  
"Now, now." Tuskernini shook his head in disagreement. "I wouldn't go that far." He took the seat opposite Starling. "Everybody deserves a chance at the limelight; even if it's a background character."

"Hey!" Starling snatched his book out of sight. "Get your own script!"

"I thought I might be able to help you; you're clearly experiencing writer's block and I consider myself the very pinnacle of dramatic expression. My movie, the-."

**"Can it!"** Starling snapped, "I don't need your life history; I need a dark and gritty reboot and I need it now!"  
"Ah, the achromatic adumbrate world that best sets the scene for the most fallacious of victoriums." Tuskernini chuckled, "deeply unsettling."

Ugh, just the sound of his pompous voice was grating on Starling. "Yeah, that's exactly what it is; so glad I could be talking to an ignominious glutinous pretentious plagiarising hack like you!" He flipped the table up. It hit Tuskernini in the face and he grunted in pain. "You incompetent flower-mouthed mountain of blubber!"

"How dare you, sir! I am not incompetent."  
"You wanna look harder at what I'm wearing?"

Tuskernini blinked, roving his eyes over Starling's yellow vest; his red and black cape, his fedora. "Aaah!" He uttered with a dawn of whimsical memory. "That was surely one of my best works."  
Starling snorted. "As much potential as a box of spent matches."  
"There you see I'm not incompetent: His death was all part of the script."

"He-was-your-main-character!"

"True artistic genius can be found by how far one reaches beyond the expected and into the hitherto unknown."

Starling was shocked. And they never locked this guy up?

* * *

There was a sudden loud rapping of metal on wood. Starling looked over at the waitress by a nearby table.

"Dummy!" She glared at him. "Over here and eat; it'll put some brains back into your head! Sit down to it, and I'll even get you a second plate on the house."

Starling raised an eyebrow at her and sat down to the plate. He was starving and grabbed the fork shovelling vegetables in the absence of the knife for the steak.

She put the knife back on the table. "And you," She looked venomously at Tuskernini, "one more word out of you and you're going hungry. How do you like that for a plot twist?" She turned about angrily on her heel and headed off. "Every other night. It's always gotta be something."

After a time, Starling looked over at Tuskernini quietly eating in the far corner. Nobody had ever arrested him. This was the lawless world he needed to be writing about. This realism.

"No wonder my show was cancelled: I was barking up the wrong tree all along." In Darkwing Duck's world, Tuskernini would've gone behind bars. Darkwing Duck had no grounding in reality; he was just a virtuous notion wrapped up in a few cheap, yet dramatically appropriate gimmicks. In this world, if Darkwing Duck tried to take on Tuskernini, it wasn't Tuskernini that'd be called the bad guy of the episode.

It was Darkwing Duck.

* * *

Halfway through his second plate, Starling began appreciating the young woman's spunk.

She came to refill his glass of water.  
"Thanks. You're the first worthwhile person I've met in years."  
She looked up at him. "Welcome to Antonio's Family Restaurant."  
"I know... I' been here a couple hours now."  
"Only in body. The rest of you was still out on the road."

* * *

Tuskernini paid and left. Starling finished his food as he watched the waitress clean up.

"So this kinda thing happens a lot?"  
"You're the worst I've seen. When was the last time you ate a square meal like this?"

Starling paused, considering. "Hard to think about food lately."

"Numbskull, you're doing it wrong." She shook her head lightly. "Eat first, then think about food. Get eating right and you'll be so far above the scum-bags in your life you'll see them for the joke they really are."

Starling raised an eyebrow, "A joke?"

She sighed.

"Menina!" A man's voice called from the kitchen. "Desperado está enganando você!"

She sighed again. "If you want a third plate, you got to pay for it. That, or there's a corner store and a bakery across the road. You can make a sandwich out of that. Should be enough to get you where you're going."

Starling smirked at being called a 'desperado'. "Sure, thanks." He handed her the money for the first plate and left.


	5. Doctor Bellum

**Your Heart is in My Lunch Box**

* * *

**Doctor Sara Bellum**

* * *

One day and an hour's work later and Drake had finished both of the last sets of shelves; not because they were dull, but because every protocol, procedure and form had come out of a need in either Condoris', Featherstone's, Borgini's or Hooter's cases. If there was a mermaid in the mess, S.H.U.S.H. would discover and deal with it. If there was an alien in the argument, S.H.U.S.H. would discover and deal with it.

* * *

In low level triumph he walked back to Agent Smith's desk. What was he going to do with his life now?

"I am the terror that files the un-filable!" He said in an enthused tone. "Everything in it's place, nothing out of place and I also fixed up a couple of spelling errors that were staring at me... in the face."  
"Oh, thank you, Darkwing. Director Hooter said he wanted to see you when you'd finished."

"He does?" Drake felt a knot of nervous tension in his stomach. The last encounter between them hadn't gone very well.

"But he's in a meeting just at this moment. Why don't you take an extra break and then come back?"  
"Oh, um sure. Can I get you a coffee?"  
"Oh, you're sweet, but you just focus on taking your break. Twenty minutes should be about it."

Drake nodded, "Okay. You couldn't make it sound any more ominous, per chance? **'The director wants to see you'**." He intoned in a dark cadence. "Am I getting fired? Is there a cannon involved? Should I invest in a new pair of sneakers?" He pointed down to his bare webbed feet.

Agent Smith held her hand to her mouth, unable to contain her giggling. "Oh, you're not in trouble, dear." She smiled at him. "Take your break."

* * *

After making a coffee in the tea room, Drake sat down in the mess hall, set to passively studying the people around him like usual. Mostly standard suits, but here and there was a colourful marker like himself.

He wasn't out of place; he was just new.

* * *

Drake made his way back to Agent Smith's desk a little before twenty minutes. "Uh, sorry, Mrs Smith. I just realised you didn't tell me exactly where I needed to be."  
"Here. Or actually, in there." She nodded to her right.

"Ah, young man." Hooter smiled at him from the doorway beside the desk.  
"Hello, Director Hooter, sir."  
"Do come in."

Drake followed him into the director's office-that he'd been shockingly close to every time he'd talked to Terri at her desk.

It was the largest room Drake had seen in this place beyond the non-room zones. The room had space for a bookshelf, a pot plant and Hooter even had a window behind his chair.

"Those windows are really rare."

"Firstly I'd like to apologise for my poor manners the other night." Hooter gestured to the visitor chair as he walked around the desk to take his own seat.  
"I've heard a lot worse." Drake sat down. I'm sorry as well; sometimes I... well, I have trouble with tact. Or coherence for that matter. It's not so great when you're trying to make a good impression."

Hooter chuckled, "You have a colourful way of expressing yourself. There's nothing wrong with that."

* * *

Hooter continued, "According to your record you-."  
"My-my record?" Drake swallowed. "I don't have a record! When did I get a record?"  
"When you walked into a S.H.U.S.H. building." Hooter answered seriously.  
"Oh."

And Drake had just sent Hooter into hyper starchy mode again. "It's okay that you don't like me very much, sir. Just know that I want to be fighting crime." Drake readdressed the 'friend not foe' matter again. "I'm confident I can make a good field agent."

Hooter gazed, his expression growing ever more wan and grim.  
"Is confident not a good word?" Drake readied himself, "You don't think I can do the job?"

"Darkwing-Duck-is-not-a-duck!" Hooter exclaimed.

"What?" Drake blinked in momentary surprise, "Well, no, that's true. He's an idea."  
"And an idea is not corruptible. But a duck is! And 'you' are a duck."  
Drake felt a pitting in his stomach. "Nobody has exclusive rights to that problem! It can happen to any active 'unsuspecting' S.H.U.S.H. operative!"

Hooter studied Drake with a dark look. "You are making a lot of assumptions."  
"I know. You're making it harder than I think is appropriate." Drake frowned.  
Hooter raised an eyebrow.  
"I mean, I'd love you to point out what I've missed."

"Very well," Hooter stood up. "Come with me."

* * *

Drake followed Hooter, a growing fear of what he was actually going to find out. By the direction they turned, the destination was the science labs.

Hooter swiped his pass card for a door and Drake stepped into a small room after him. There was a metal door on the other side.  
"Ah. The old 'hide a door behind a door' trick." He commented. "Definitely saw that one coming."

Hooter scanned his pass card and led Drake into the lab.

* * *

Drake marvelled at the array of microscopes, computers, chemical vats. Something familiar caught his eye and he jumped towards it. "Wowee! An actual working gas gun?" He gazed around at the different cannisters surrounding it. "What do the labels say?"

"It's in Braille." A woman said crisply from behind him.

Drake whirled around to discover a beautiful face with long black bangs, a pony tail and glasses. She wore a white lab coat over her thin form and was holding an empty jar.

"Lovely to see some young blood in the place again." She remarked with a dazzling smile.  
"You are..."  
"Doctor Sara Bellum."  
He shook himself. "I meant to say, 'not that much older than I am'."

She shrugged cheerfully. "Um, not to sound too... actually I don't really care. I need one of your feathers." She held out the jar to him.  
"Uh, sure..." Drake pulled out a feather from his head and tentatively placed it in her jar.  
"Wonderful, thank you." She put the lid on it. "Right this way, Darkwing Duck."

* * *

Drake followed her, feeling a little tense. Hooter was nowhere to be found. "Rats; I've got to stop doing that."

"Doing what?" Doctor Bellum asked.  
"Getting distracted." He flinched, "By every geeky little thing..."

She turned to him, putting her hand on his shoulder with a comforting smile, "You'll be alright; it's just because you're new at the job."  
Drake smiled back at her, "Uh, thanks-."

She suddenly pushed him.  
"Hey-y!" Metal extendo-arms snatched him into a tight grip faster than he could right himself.

He landed upright against a circular wall hanging.  
"Don't worry, this won't hurt much." Doctor Bellum began activating some nearby equipment.  
"What are you doing?"  
"This equipment is at the cutting edge of today's psychological evaluation techniques." She suddenly picked up a metalworking visor and put it on her face. "Actually we just ripped the blueprints off an alien space ship. You'll be fine. Probably." She flicked the switch.  
"Probab-!"

With an electric spark, everything went white.


	6. Script Chase

**Script Chase**

* * *

_McDuck movie studio._

Starling had been here before, only this time, he wasn't taking no for an answer.

He revved his bike and crashed through the boom gate. Shrapnel flew everywhere. He spun the bike around to a stop. "Well, that was fun." He commented and looked at the main building, waiting for the officers to catch up to him.

"Hey, hold it right there!"  
"Y-I'm trying," He gritted, "But you're just too darn slow!" He jumped forward in a flying kick, sending the first guard off sailing into the wall. He rounded on the other guard, "Next!"  
The guard turned and ran off. "Back up, back up! Somebody send for Gizmoduck!"  
"Yeah, and I'll take on that tin can too!" He yelled back to the man.

Starling stepped inside the building. "Alright, the script would be in storage by now. And that's..." He checked his memories of studios. "This way."

* * *

It was basically broom closet territory. He shoved the script in his breast pocket and grabbed an extension lead while he was at it, then headed towards the exit. In the front reception waiting area, he unplugged the water cooler and plugged in the extension lead. He picked up the bottle off the dispenser. in his other hand.

He stepped outside and Gizmoduck zoomed right in; front and centre.

"Least you're on cue." He gazed stonily at Gizmoduck. "More than I can say for Bulba."  
"Halt, evildoer!"  
"Sorry, I'm busy. How about a game of catch instead? Here, catch!" He tossed the half empty bottle. Gizmoduck caught it, but not without getting splashed.

"This suit incorporates highly advanced water proof technology." Gizmoduck advanced on him.

Starling dodged, circling around till Gizmoduck was back in the same place as he'd started. "Oh!" He said in mock helplessness, "You got me." He dropped the extension cord into the puddle and vaulted over onto his motorcycle.

Gizmoduck lit up with a surge of electricity. "Argh!"

"See you around, 'sparky'." He revved the engine and tore off at high speed. "He's sporting way too much tech'." He grunted in distaste. "Gotta get outta the radar zone."

* * *

Starling drove along the seaside road, wondering how long he actually had before he was in a real fight with that rattle tin can. He spied an abandoned looking warehouse out doing nothing in the middle of a cornfield. "Perfect."

He left his motorbike running as he went to kick open the door. He parked inside and shut the door behind, plunging himself into a pervading darkness.

He turned around to view his new hideout.

Dark, smelling faintly of horse sweat and hay. above the rafter there was a solid kind of darkness, suggesting another level. Traces of hay littered the floor. Overhead there was a single faint glimmer of light.

Starling climbed the ladder to the upper level. The light from the window hit one little spot on the floorboards.

"This'll do." He decided and sat down. He arranged himself so that the light hit the script, allowing him to read it.


End file.
